


Live and Let Die

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Angst, Coma, Dark, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, PG-13 - Blue Cortina, Time Period: 1981-2006 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-09
Updated: 2008-06-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 19:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12439860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: Title: Live and Let DieSubject: Gene and Alex after the night before. Later plot sees a killer come between our heroes.Rating: T for language and suggestive themes but not gratuitous enough, I think for M - please let me know if you feel I have rated incorrectlyMany thanks to skywise0123000 and Emzi.x for taking the time to beta and be so grammatically observant! This is my first fic so am grateful for all reviews, positive and negative, I'm a big girl, I can take it!Disclaimer: I do not own Gene and Alex or anyone else. And they do not own me.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).

Chapter One

 

 

Saturday 23 January, 1982

 

 

Alex woke slowly and hazily, the sunlight twinkling through the blinds teasing her. Sleep tempted her, pulling her back beneath the covers to the realm of sweet, dreamless unconsciousness. She could lose herself in time and space with no obligation to wake until she was ready. This was darkness without fear: no clown to rush at her; no tortuous glances of her daughter on the periphery of her vision, lost each time she tried to gain full view of her; no car explosion; and no Gene Hunt confusing her sense of loyalty.

 

 

Alex sat bolt upright, her body instantly regretting the violent movement. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and leant forward trying to repress the rising bile in her throat and the slow, thundering, banging from the depths of her brain. She turned around slowly, shifting her bum, unable to turn her head on her neck for the pain. And there he lay. Half covered by the pillar-box red duvet, his black shirt undone, one arm draped over the side of the bed, the other crossed uncomfortably across his torso, his head facing the other direction, away from Alex.

 

 

“Shit”, she swore under her breath. Had she really allowed this to happen? She turned her back to him and closed her eyes, squinting as she tried to remember the events of the previous evening. Flashes appeared to her. Molly had been following her all day, persistently appearing at the corner of her eye. It had been slow at the office and she had inevitably drifted off to sleep at her desk dreaming of Molly’s birthday. Interrupted from her reveries, she had been dragged to ‘lunch’ earlier than usual, lethargy apparently affecting the whole team. Wine was consumed quickly and liberally; not enough food had been ordered. As the team had become more raucous Alex and Gene had segregated themselves, sharing several bottles of red wine between them. Alex squeezed her eyes tighter as she tried to recall their conversation. Had she flirted with him? Tempted him?

 

 

Hadn’t he moved in first for the kiss? She had swayed, blinded that the moment had finally come. She couldn’t remember moving from Luigi’s to her flat but she remembered fumbling for the buttons on his shirt eventually ripping them off. They had fallen in a tumbled heap onto the bed, leaving a trail of discarded clothes en route. She flinched as she recalled leading him through the flat, avoiding the now irrelevant wall calendar marking the days to her parents’ death.

 

 

The act itself…? Alex stood up. She had had sex with Gene Hunt. Despite her disgust for his working methods, his lifestyle and his prejudices, she had grown to like him and even, begrudgingly, to respect him. They worked well as a team - the parents to the schoolboys of CID, bickering constantly, both equally committed to the justice of their profession. She had begun to long for him. His presence, despite her resistance, comforted her. Molly’s haunting bothered her less when he was around. He distracted her from the tragedy of her situation. She wanted him to protect her from all the pain, she wanted to lose herself in him, allow him to let her forget.

 

 

But at the back of her mind there harboured a seed of doubt, of suspicion. Gene Hunt kept ‘saving’ her: stopping her from walking in front of a car when she first arrived; rescuing her from Chas Cale’s freezer; jumping on top of her when Gil Hollis’ bullets were raining on them. He kept her in ‘the land of the livin’ but where was that? She didn’t want to be in this land of the living, she wanted to be home, in 2008. If she ‘lived’ here then what did that mean for her 2008 existence? So she reined in her feelings for him, certain that involving herself with him would only delay her return home.

 

 

Yet here she was, the morning after the night before. She ran to the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time as she emptied her guts.

 

 

After leaning back against the toilet and cleaning herself, Alex leant against the door of the bathroom, wrapped in a black silk robe. He’s awake, she noted, taking in the sight of Gene languidly stretching and rubbing his hands over his face as if trying to clear the sleep and his hangover. She ran the back of her hand across her mouth and gave Gene a cursory nod, flicking her eyes away from his gaze, feeling too awkward to return to the bed despite her desperate need to curl up in a ball; neither did she want to seem rude by asking him to leave. Should they talk about what happened last night? She felt too ill. She had wanted this. And here he was but it was wrong. The sex had been wrong: fumbled, messy, sloppy, a jumble of disjointed mages. They had shagged, fucked each other even, but they hadn’t been intimate. They had passed out afterwards, each in their own drunken, shagged-out fog, each enjoying the idea of the other. But now, here in the cold light of day, he was too close and he was too real. In the darkness of Luigi’s, through the cloud of smoke and the haze of the alcohol, Alex had been able to dress him up as her knight in shining armour, polish him up to be the man she hoped he was.

 

 

“We drank a lot last night”, she proffered.

 

 

Gene sat up. He pouted, looked her in the eyes and then turned his eyes downwards. He reached for his boxers and trousers which were strewn on the floor beside the bed.

 

 

“We did. You can put ‘em away, Bols”

 

 

“I…I don’t know what….” Alex stammered.

 

 

“Too much wine, ‘ey, let’s leave it that, shall we?” he interrupted quickly as he finished dressing and looked around frantically for his suit jacket. “Gotta get to work; leave Chris and Raymondo at it too long, I won’t have a station left to run!” He found the jacket and, without meeting Alex’s eyes, threw a “see ya later” over his shoulder as he fought with the sleeve of his jacket and shut the door behind him.

 

 

The clown leant against the door frame, grinning menacingly at her.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes: Thanks again to Emzi.x for her beta skills, especially as she should be revising! Plot starts here!

Disclaimer: Kudos to Kudos. Thanks for letting me play.  


* * *

Chapter Two

 

 

Tuesday 16 February, 1982

 

 

There was a killer on the loose: a sadistic, misogynistic, psychopath. Two young women had been found in the docks area of East London. The modus operandi had been identical. The women, barely more than girls really, had been abducted in the early morning, each on the way to their respective places of work. They were middle-class; the first had been a primary school teacher, the second a law student in her final year. They had the world in front of them: careers they loved, supportive families, and loving boyfriends; families who were beyond devastated at the loss of their daughters. They had each been found seven days after their disappearances, lying face-down in the mud near the Thames. There was severe bruising to the wrists and ankles, suggesting continuous and harsh restraint, evidence of sexual assault and most disturbingly to the investigative team at CID, small cuts all over the bodies alongside deeper cuts causing extensive blood loss. The post-mortems, however, had returned the causes of their deaths as drowning.

 

 

Alex had thrown herself into the case. The first death had come to their attention a few days after ‘the night’. She had kept her contact with Gene to a minimum. The clown had thankfully not reappeared after that morning but it had been the first time she had seen him since her parents’ deaths and it had shaken her deeply. Now when she caught glimpses of Molly: in her school uniform; waiting to blow out her candles, Alex felt something she hadn’t felt previously: Molly was judging her.

 

 

And then this case had come along and she committed to it one hundred and ten percent. She needed to forget about her night with Gene and all the confused emotions its memory provoked, and she was no closer to finding a route home. This morning she had gone into work at sunrise and now, just in time for elevenses, had already spent many hours poring over old cases, blocking out the chatter of her colleagues, searching the records for anyone who fit her carefully-drawn profile, someone who would have taken years to develop into this murderous pattern. She knew this man. Profiling is what she was most skilled at - she knew it was a man working alone, with a disturbed hatred and fear of women; she shuddered at the cliché of it. She had written endless notes and recorded her thoughts on her dictaphone.

 

 

The murders had occurred two weeks apart. As yet no one else had been reported missing but with no prints or useful forensic evidence to work with, a sense of urgency pervaded the team. They knew this would happen again; they didn’t need Alex to tell them – as she did and often – that he had escalated. Having reached murder, he would have felt a high perhaps only heroin addicts could understand; his high would be short-lived and his hunger would remain unsatisfied so the murders would continue.

 

 

“DI Drake. My office.” Gene appeared at the door to his office and called his DI, forcefully. Alex sighed and complied. Gene had been equally distant to her as she to him. He spoke to her only about work. Alex tried to read him but his gruff and silent demeanor gave her no clues.

 

 

“Right. You’ve been at it all morning. Have you found my killer?” said Gene, hunching forward over his desk, perched on his knuckles. Alex tucked her thumbs into the back pockets of her jeans and raised her shoulders. “You’ve got your profile by now, ‘aven’t you?” Gene emphasised the word ‘profile’ as if he was spitting out a particularly distasteful Special from Luigi’s menu.

 

 

Alex rolled her eyes. She knew this killer inside out. She just didn’t know where to find him. Part of his brilliance was his meticulousness and they had no forensic evidence to go on, nor any witnesses. She knew Gene would hate her suggestion but she pressed ahead unabated:

 

 

“We need bait, Guv.”

 

 

Gene stared at her. “You are joking? You think I’m going to put a police officer in the way of this nutter because you can’t find my killer!” he fumed, gesturing pointedly with his gloved hand between her, the desk and the main office.

 

 

“It’s going to happen again!” Alex hissed, jaw jutting out, banging her hand on his desk and stamping her foot. ”For God’s sake, Gene. Do you want us to wait until another woman turns up dead or do you not think it might, just might, be a good idea to pre-empt his next move and bring him to us?” Her curls shook with every emphatic syllable.

 

 

Gene clenched his jaw in return, pouting and looking briefly out of the window. He hated it when she was right. He shuffled his feet, one hand on his hip. He looked down at the floor and then back at Alex’s face.

 

 

“Okay.” He sniffed. “But if anything happens to one of my officers, I’m holding you responsible, get it?” poking her in the chest. “We do this right, Drake.” He had not called her Bolly since that night.

 

 

“Thank you.” Alex smiled her widest, closed-lips smile.

 

 

She turned to leave. The clown was standing by the door to Gene’s office. Alex felt a wave of nausea rush over her, stemming from the pit of her stomach like a white flash of light. She stumbled, reaching out a hand to the desk. Why is the clown shimmering? she thought, like the heat rising from a desert, as her head began to swim. The edges of the room turned to black, the clown was the only thing Alex could see, shining whiter and brighter. He loomed over her, his arms moving out towards her. He seemed to be getting larger. She put her hands up to push him away, turning her head to avoid his evil stare, the curling blood-red lips, but she was trapped looking up at him. Time seemed to stop as he moved closer. She could feel the scream rising within her throat.

 

 

“Alex! Bolly!” Gene reacted instantly. Catching her from behind he wrapped his arms around her waist as her knees buckled. He fell to his knees with her; her head slumped heavily against his shoulder. She struggled against him, arms flailing. Gene sought to calm her as he tempered his own rising panic.

 

 

“Shh, shh” He soothed, stroking her damp hair back from her forehead, leaning his cheek against the back of her head, and holding her arms tightly round her chest with his other hand, rocking them both ever so slightly, trying to ease her distress, and his own.

 

 

“Molly!” she cried. ”Get him away from me!” she slurred.

 

 

“Alex, it’s okay, I’m ‘ere” Gene said softly and then more firmly: “For God’s sake, woman, stop fighting me! It’s over.”

 

 

Alex blinked as the light returned to the room, like a fog clearing. Her head pounded and her heart was racing. She was hot. She needed to get her white leather jacket off. She pulled at her arms to do so and found resistance. Where was she? It took her a few seconds to realise she was on the floor and that she was being held. She ceased struggling. She was being held and it felt good, safe. The clown was gone. She breathed slowly and deeply through her nose a few times to steady her breathing and the thumping heartbeat.

 

 

“Shh, shh. You’re okay now. It’s okay.” Gene whispered into her ear, no longer sure if he was talking to her or comforting himself. He had ached to hold her in his arms again after that night. He had been left with an emptiness that he couldn’t comprehend. He wanted to rewind the evening and go back to the moment when she allowed him to kiss her. If he had his chance again he would have moved more slowly, taking the time to caress and hold her rather than the scrambled mess that had occurred. And now she was in his arms again but not in the way Gene had hoped.

 

 

Gene shifted her in his arms and supporting her back with one arm, slid the other under her knees; he lifted her to his chair and pushed her head forward between her knees, trying to get the blood to flow back to her brain. She didn’t resist and put her hands to her head, pulling her hair away from her face. Gene reached for the whiskey, and poured himself a large glass and threw the glass back emptying its contents in one gulp, one hand absent-mindedly resting on Alex’s shoulder.

 

 

“What the ‘ell was that? Nearly gave me an ‘eart attack.” Gene paced back and forth in front of his desk, glaring at Alex with concern etched into his stern features.

 

 

“I… I think I need to go home” Alex stammered softly, barely audible. She stood slowly, gingerly testing her legs which unexpectedly managed to support her weight. The clown had gone but Molly lingered just out of sight, in the corner of the office.

 

 

Gene nodded slightly, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, his lips returning to their natural pouting pose. She wasn’t going to open up to him and he was buggered if he was going to push. She was deathly pale, though the colour was slowly returning to her cheeks, the greenish grey hue he had seen there a few moments earlier disappearing.

 

 

“I’m fine, Gene” She said unconvincingly but defiantly. Gene raised his eyebrows. “I skipped breakfast. I haven’t been sleeping well.” She could explain away the fainting to him but she had no explanation for the clown’s return.

 

 

She grabbed the files on her desk as Gene ushered her through the office. “I can work just as well from home, you know” she spat at him before he had time to protest. Safe as she had felt a few moments ago in his arms, Gene witnessing her yet again in a vulnerable state unsettled her. Much as she had wanted him to comfort her a few weeks ago, playing the damsel-in-distress was hardly her style.

 

 

“If you’re well enough to work from home, you can work at the office, and look at you, you’re no good here.” he responded, throwing his stern glance around the room, equally unprepared to reveal his hurt feelings. Alex jutted her jaw at him. “Look, we haven’t time for me to lie-around. I just need a nap and a sandwich and then I can continue on the case as soon as I wake up.” she offered sweetly, swaying almost imperceptibly.

 

 

“Fine!” He just wanted to get her home. His skin tingled unpleasantly as the image of her falling flashed back to his frontal cortex. Gene Hunt swept out the office, open coat flapping behind him while Alex trotted after him.

 

 

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

 

Thursday 25 February, 1982

 

 

Alex had returned to work the day after her fainting spell. Gene had tried to question her about it further but she brushed away his concerned enquiries. They spent the next week hammering out their action plan to catch the “Paper-cut Killer” as the newspapers had labelled him. Their net was simple. An undercover female police officer would be set up in a flat in Shadwell as a teacher. It had taken Alex a full week to convince Gene that it should be her: she was the most senior female officer in the Met; she fitted the middle-class profile (they had lost two days to arguments due to Gene’s comments about her age not matching the dead girls) and, she pointed out, she could defend herself.

 

 

Urgency, in the end, forced Gene to concede; there was no one else appropriate. He was absolutely not prepared to put Shaz in the face of danger again, having confined her to office duties since her stabbing, and although her age was right, her class was…how did Gene put it? Alex winced at the memory: "You couldn’t cut plastic, let alone glass wi’ those dulcet tones.”

 

 

The team were making their final preparations for Alex’s departure the following day. There would be officers outside her flat, outside her place of work, following her every move. A crash-course in stealth surveillance had been necessary for all members of CID. Watching Chris’s and Ray’s befuddled faces as they tried to grasp the basic concepts of spotting suspicious behaviour, Alex hid her concern from Gene. She knew she needed to be the one to do this, and she needed to lead the team. And she knew that Gene was one excuse away from ending the operation – he had been gentler to her since the fainting incident and she was becoming accustomed to the bacon butties on her desk when she arrived at work in the morning.

 

 

“We’ve got a job to do, Bollinger Knickers, can’t spend me ’ole time catchin’ posh, mouthy tarts.” he’d replied gruffly when she had tried to acknowledge his gesture the first morning. So she smiled and nodded at him instead and suppressed the waves of nausea that the smell of bacon caused, eating them as quickly as possible.

 

 

She would have to be extra vigilant, she coached herself. She had seen the two bodies, closely studied the detailed photographs of their injuries. Imaginary constructs or not, how could Alex not care? Being a police officer was at the core of her being and she was driven by her need to protect the innocent.

 

 

Alex took the set of clothes Gene had dumped on her desk for her ‘legend’- she smiled to herself at the spookiness of it all - and proceeded to the ladies’ toilets to try them on. Apart from the heels, Alex was unimpressed. She was supposed to look like a young, sexy, career-orientated, upper middle-class private school teacher. “Not a spinster librarian.” she muttered as she surveyed the coarse brown tweed two-piece in the mirror, scowling and shaking her head.

 

 

“Ma’am?” Shaz popped her head around the bathroom door. “Guv wants to know how it’s going.” Alex jumped, startled at the interruption. She nodded at Shaz. The slow-mo bullet appeared in her mind’s eye and she promptly passed out.

 

 

“Ma’am!” Shaz rushed to her superior officer’s side, lying prone on the floor tiles.

 

 

“I’m fine, Shaz, I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Alex came to quickly this time, the blood rushing back to her head the moment she hit the floor.

 

 

“I’ll get someone.” Shaz attempted to leave but Alex grabbed her wrist.

 

 

“No, Shaz. Really, I’m fine. It’s just low blood sugar. We have a schedule to stick to. What do you think the Guv will do if we tell him about this?” Alex pleaded with the younger woman.

 

 

Shaz hesitated. She knew she ought to tell someone. Her DI didn’t look well. But she trusted her, her ‘guardian angel’. Alex had save her life, and stood by her, supported her. And she wanted to catch this killer as much as the rest of them. “We’re a team, Ma’am, you should tell ‘im.” She suggested softly.

 

 

“I will, Shaz. Just not today.” Alex put her hand to Shaz’s cheek as she helped Alex to her feet.

 

 

“Well, all these clothes are useless.” she announced.

 

 

Alex stormed into Gene’s office and dumped the clothes on his desk. “I’m going shopping and I’m taking Shaz with me” she declared before Gene had a chance to stop what he was doing and register her presence.

 

 

“No, you’re bloody not. You will wear the clothes I bloody provided!” he roared back.

 

 

“Gene, we’re trying to lure him out not send him to a sick bucket!” Without waiting for a response, Alex sauntered out of the office, dragging Shaz along with her, who shrugged at a helpless looking Chris.

 

 

Alex sat in the less-popular CID car and waited for Shaz to return. They had had a successful afternoon shopping. Alex marvelled at how much she enjoyed the younger officer’s company. She allowed her to prattle on about all and sundry although inevitably Shaz settled on the subject of her relationship with Chris. She had shyly quizzed Alex about the more intimate parts of her relationship and Alex had responded kindly, advising her on the finer points of contraception. Shaz had seemed rather shocked by Alex’s forthrightness. Alex sighed and shook her head at the thought of her own daughter asking similar questions.

 

 

While she had these few moments to herself – Shaz had ensured she drank lots of coffee and took many cake breaks from the retail therapy – Alex allowed herself to semi-doze. She smiled warmly at Shaz and Chris’s innocence. Alex’s own mother hadn’t been there to guide her through those early years of discovery. Evan had taken a clinical view and been extremely open with her though he had omitted to delve into the emotional pitfalls that surround sex and relationships sticking to facts only. As a result Alex had no qualms talking openly about sex with Shaz. Not that Alex had taken all that much notice of Evan’s advice. She had married young, on a whim, and had a child when only at the start of her career.

 

 

Alex jerked awake. She wasn’t one for always taking her own advice, she thought with a shudder, clutching her arms around herself. She took a deep breath as Shaz opened the passenger door.

 

 

“’Ere you go, Ma,am. Black coffee.”

 

 

“Thanks. I…erm… I’m just going to pop to the chemists.” Shaz looked at her questioningly. “I think some vitamins would do me the world of good.” Alex explained innocently.

 

 

oOo

 

 

Alex reached over to the second packet lying on the floor beside the toilet. Never trust the first one, she thought, trying to suppress the rising panic. She ripped open the tube and positioned the stick awkwardly between her legs, willing herself to pee a second time.

 

 

Two minutes she needed to wait. Another slow, tortuous two minutes. She pulled her knickers and jeans up and flushed the toilet, placing the stick on the side of the sink. Alex blocked all thought from her mind as she paced around the flat, ignoring the flickering television screen. She returned to the bathroom where, picking up the stick, she breathed in through her nose and exhaled slowly through barely parted lips. She looked at the tube.

 

 

Positive.

 

 

She was pregnant. She could do a hundred tests and she knew they would all tell her the same thing. In a daze, she wandered back to the living room and slumped back onto the black and white sofa.

 

 

“Mols?” she whispered. A tear fought its way down her cheek.

 

 

“I’m never coming home, am I?” she sobbed into the empty room.

 

 

She lifted her blue satin blouse and moved her left hand across her belly and looked down. A baby? She couldn’t believe it. She should have recognised the signs: the nausea and the exhaustion - though she hadn’t fainted last time. They had felt familiar but she had put it down to eating poorly, and the nightmares that were causing her sleep deprivation, and she had ignored them, preoccupied as she was by the case.

 

 

The case. She couldn’t tell Gene. She would wait until the case was over and then she would think about it. It was early days anyway, anything could happen. She would just have to eat more regularly, look after herself to prevent further fainting spells. Space is what she needed and going undercover would give her time away from Gene. Playing another role would be good for her, she theorised, as she returned to her bedroom and began packing her suitcase.

 

 

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

 

 

Wednesday 21 April, 1982

 

 

Alex had been undercover for nearly two months. Another girl had been found dead at the end of March, throwing the team into turmoil. The third victim’s profile was slightly different from the first two: she led a quieter lifestyle and didn’t have a boyfriend. She shared her flat with another quiet girl and her parents had moved north. Gene had wanted to bring Alex in but she had insisted she remain where she was, that this change in pattern gave them a greater chance of enticing him to her. He was looking for more isolated victims, she claimed. They had argued vigorously on the telephone, Gene in his office, Alex in her temporary flat. She argued that it would take time. Again he had known that she was right, that to pull her in now would only destroy the work they had done so far. And they were still so far away from catching this killer. Again, they found no evidence on the third body to further the investigation, only the desperate grief of the girl’s family.

 

 

Gene had sulked in Luigi’s the evening after his row with Alex, hiding in a dark corner away from the prying gazes of his colleagues, all looking to him to lead them, to inspire them to find this evil bastard. He brooded over his third beer. He missed her: her scent, their arguments – over the phone wasn’t the same: she couldn’t bring her flashing eyes close to his - her loopy ideas. He regretted not having had the balls to confront her about their night together; her rejection in the morning had seemed to him so outright. He forlornly recalled the moment when, after several hours and many more bottles of wine than was sensible, he thought she would make her usual exit upstairs. She had leant forward as if to shift her chair away from the table, paused, and then let her cheek sink heavily into the palm of her hand instead and slowly batted her heavy-lidded eyelashes at him. Months of dreaming of her, of wanting to hold her, to comfort her, to find out why she had taken the Prices’ deaths so personally had taken over him and without thinking he had leant forward and kissed her. And she had kissed him back. He had wanted her from the moment he set eyes on her hip-length red dress and he had sensed that his time had come, he would finally get her.

 

 

Pained, he realised that he had known then that he should have stopped it; he had taken advantage of her. She was very drunk and even he had sensed she was emotionally fragile. But he had needed to touch her, to possess her. And he had been drunk enough to allow himself this indulgence having resisted so many times before. He had carried her up the stairs, kissing her ferociously all the way. He had virtually broken the door down as she had fumbled helplessly for her keys. She had led him, pulling him by his tie, to the bedroom, hugging his face to hers.

 

 

And he had lost himself in her. To be able to run his hands through her hair, entwining his fingers in her curls, to trace the contours of her body, to fuck her as he had dreamt of doing was intoxicating. But in the morning, he felt … he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He should have been elated but he had a nagging sense of…something he couldn’t quite grasp.

 

 

So she had rejected him and he accepted it. He pushed his emotions to one side, trying to treat the night like any other one-night stand: forgotten. Work dominated their time and conversation. And then a few weeks later she had fainted spectacularly in his office and his repressed feelings for her flooded back, pulling the metaphorical rug from beneath him. It was more than desire: they had already shagged, there was more to it than that, he grimly considered. And then she insisted on this crackpot scheme. He couldn’t believe her urge to put herself in danger. But he was a copper and deep down he did understand her drive and was in awe of her bravery.

 

 

Two months was a long time to stomach her absence. His brief phone conversations with her made him miss her all the more. He took his turns at surveillance with the rest of the team but it was a laborious job; in the rare glimpses he caught of her moving between locations he found himself watching her instead of scouring the area for other illicit observers. There had been moments when he had almost left his observation point, walked up to her and ended it instantly, the thought of her furious reaction almost motivation enough. How could she irritate him so thoroughly yet simultaneously tug on heart strings he thought had long been severed?

 

 

It was still dark when Gene entered his office. He hadn’t been able to sleep. He was fed up with this case. Right, he told himself, she’s got one more week. We’re not getting anywhere and she’s needed here with the rest of the team. Her psychotic skills – he smiled to himself – are needed in the office and shouldn’t be wasted teaching snotty-nosed, toffy-arsed kids English. He shunned the little voice at the back of his mind - the one that articulated the sentimentality that Alex had been briefly privileged to witness, even if she hadn’t fully noticed it – who nagged at him that he was ending the operation for the wrong reasons: he was allowing his feelings for a bird to cloud his professional judgement.

 

 

From his vantage point on the third floor, he watched her leave the block of flats opposite and seat herself at the bus stop outside. It was raining, a light spring shower. She brushed her windswept hair from her face. He licked his lips and through his binoculars traced the contours of her form with his eyes, down the length of her neck, along the v-line of her satin shirt, taking in the exposed skin. He inhaled heavily at the thought of her breasts beneath. She placed one hand on her stomach, rubbing it gently with her thumb. Her legs were crossed at the ankles. He could imagine the smell of the leather of her boots hugging her legs.

 

 

She lived alone. There was no boyfriend, he was sure. Three women had moved into the block in the last few months. He had seen a woman enter the building with her a few times but that was all. She worked at the local private girls’ school. He grimaced. It would be different this time. Those pleas on the television from their families: he had had enough of that. He would not lose control, would not be the one to be caught. He would not be the stereotype. His psychology degree had taught him well and he knew why he was doing what he was doing. But he pushed his last shred of conscience to the depths of his soul. She had no life, he told himself. There was no one to really care for her. His need was greater. One addiction is like any other. But there was no counselling for his addiction. His body ached at the memory of the blood, tiny bubbles glistening through their pale skins. He didn’t want to kill them but they only had so much blood.

 

 

He had curbed himself after the first two. He knew he would leave clues. He had locked himself in his flat for three days, shaking and sweating in a corner, detoxing himself. He would not allow any mistakes and he had known he was close to losing control, the excitement, the high, too much for him to manage.

 

 

The last one had been three weeks ago. He was ready for another.

 

 

Alex waited for fifteen minutes before giving up on the bus and deciding to walk the thirty-minute journey to school instead. She stood up for two minutes, giving Ray and Chris enough time to notice her change of plan, according to the agreed code. She shoved her hands in her pockets, hunching her shoulders against the light rain and set off in the opposite direction to the watching car.

 

 

Ray and Chris were parked about 200 yards along the road, on the corner of a side road rather than on the main road itself. They had a clear view of Alex. Her daily routine was simple: she caught the bus to work at 7.15am. A car (a different model each day) would then be parked within sight of the front gates of the school. She would leave for home at 4.30pm. Any plans that Alex made to change the routine in the evening, she called into the office from the phone in the sparsely furnished flat. Any change to her route or mode of transport, she would stand for a few minutes before moving along her way.

 

 

DC Chris Skelton had a pounding headache. He had passed out at the bar at Luigi’s the night before. All this surveillance, it was so boring. They had been doing this for months. Another girl had been killed and they still had no evidence. He missed hanging out with Shaz at work and had overdone it last night. He wasn’t meant to be on duty today but another member of the team had called in sick, and the Guv insisted there were two officers watching Alex at all times.

 

 

Ray teased him mercilessly.

 

 

“You big poofter, can’t hold yer booze. ‘Ere, I’ll get you a sarnie.” laughing at the sight of his friend whose eyes were crossing as he leant against the headrest. “Keep yer eyes on ‘er ,won’t ya.” he said to Chris as he closed the door of the car.

 

 

“’ey, Ray. We’re ‘sposed to stay in the car together.” But it was too late, Ray had already crossed the road, heading for the cafe about 100 yards along the side road. Chris willed himself to sit up properly. He peered through the binoculars. She was standing. Chris glanced at his watch: 7.30. “Oh shit.” He had to make a quick decision. He jumped out the car and ran after Ray.

 

 

“She’s moving, the bus ‘asn’t turned up!” he puffed as he caught up with Ray exiting the cafe.

 

 

“’lright, calm down. She’s prob’bly just walking to school.” Ray said calmly, thrusting a sausage bap into Chris’s hand who looked at it with bemusement.

 

 

They returned to the car, Ray in the driving seat. She was gone. “Oh, fuck!” Ray started the car, and tore off down the road, past the flats and the bus stop. It was a long, straight road which meant it should take her at least ten minutes before she had to make a turning that was the route to the school. They made it to the end of the road in less than twenty seconds.

 

 

“Where the bleeding’ell is she?!” Ray yelled. “Stupid tart, why couldn’t she wait for the bloody bus!”

 

 

The bus hadn’t turned up. She walked away. He reacted instantly. In less than a minute he was down the stairs, along the road, a mere few feet behind her.

 

 

Alex felt the bang to the back of her head before she registered that she was being pulled backwards and a gloved hand had covered her mouth and nostrils. She tried to steady herself on her feet, but she was being dragged with such force. She grabbed at the arms around her chest, pulling downwards. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to elbow her attacker in the ribs but he withstood her blows. Alex’s eyes darted around urgently, looking for her back-up, seeing no one on the street to help her. She tried to scream but only a muffled noise came from her lips. She gained a brief respite as he removed his hand momentarily from her mouth. She breathed in huge gulps of air, needing a few breaths before she could scream. She didn’t get the chance as his hand returned to her mouth with a cloth and Alex blacked out instantly.

 

 

Gene’s phone rang. Sitting at his desk he looked at it, barely moving a muscle. His senses condensed that moment, searing the memory of every detail of the ordinary morning office buzz. He flicked his eyes towards the office and glanced at her empty desk. The phone continued to ring insistently. There was an almost imperceptible stillness in the air that hung heavily over him. Sniffing, Gene picked up the receiver, trying to ignore the tingling butterfly sensations that had crept across his every pore.

 

 

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

 

Friday 23 April, 1982

 

 

DCI Gene Hunt needed a miracle. They had been on the case of this murdering bastard for nearly three months. Now he had five days to prevent another murder. He stood at the spot where Alex had last been seen, smoking a cigarette and surveyed the view around him, peering up into the uniform blacks of flats through narrowed eyes. “Where the bloody ‘ell are you, Bols?” he muttered. Alex had been right; she had acted as bait and eventually he had been tempted. The psycho had been watching Alex. One slip in her routine; one failure of his useless DS and DC – Gene could not bring himself to even reprimand them, his fury was so heightened – and the scumbag had pounced and instead of catching the bastard in the act he had whisked her away into thin air. Gene imagined her sitting at the bus-stop. What had gone through her mind when she decided to give up on her wait, he thought. His response to Ray’s shameful telephone call two days previously had initially been of denial:

 

 

“’Ow can you bloody lose ‘er? What the bloody ‘ell were you two useless nonces doing! She was waiting to catch a bus for Christ’s sake! You were supposed to nick the bastard not actually let him kidnap your DI!” he had blustered, his questions tumbling from his lips uncontrollably, his face reddening with every syllable. He had rushed into the team room. “Right everyone, we are go! The bastard’s made his move. Now we catch ‘im and staple him by his scrotum to the back of the Quattro and parade him through the local WI convention!” He ignited every department, his usual controlled demeanour displaced by a manic excitement that disturbed his colleagues. He couldn’t possibly get away from them, she wouldn’t come to any harm, he had reassured himself.

 

 

Police had cordoned off the area. Every flat, house, garage was being combed within a two-mile radius of Alex’s undercover flat and the school. As twilight set in and no trace of the pair had been discovered, Gene had drifted around Alex’s temporary flat, alone. He was seething, feeling himself losing control, needing to lash out at someone or something. A deadening feeling hit his stomach as he realised they had failed. Three months and three murders and he had evaded their net so far. They had a profile that could identify what toothpaste he uses but in a city of millions of people, he was utterly elusive, a ghost. Without Alex, how could he possibly find her before the fatal deadline? He was not accustomed to feeling this out of control, this useless. As Sam and Alex had never tired of telling him, he couldn’t bear to be wrong; and he couldn’t let the rest of the team witness his doubt and his fear. Alex needed him to be strong, to not give up in the face of the seemingly impossible. He had to maintain authority. He had straightened himself to his full height and left the building, the figure of determination.

 

 

It was Ray who had broken the door down to the third floor flat in the block opposite Alex’s. It was unfurnished, and unoccupied. And was the perfect vantage point to watch the building opposite, he realised, awakening his suspicions immediately. Forensics were analysing every last fibre.

 

 

“Molly! Molly, sweetheart, we’re going to be late.” Alex yelled up the stairs to her daughter.

 

 

“Coming, Mum! Have you seen my Ninetendo DS? The dog needs a feed.” Molly’s muffled voice came from the upstairs hallway, over the banister.

 

 

“And this is why we don’t have a pet.” Alex muttered under her breath. She collected her pile of papers strewn across the living room coffee table, stuffing them chaotically into her bag and simultaneously trying to tie her hair back with one hand, getting the band tangled up in the process. Molly bounded down the stairs, throwing her school bag on the floor, shoes in one hand, her shirt messily untucked from her skirt, her school tie hung loosely untied around her neck, her untied hair sweeping in front of her eyes. Alex pulled her daughter to her, brushing the hair out of her face. She inhaled the fresh smell of her hair and kissed the top of her head.

 

 

“Mols, help me with this hairband, it’s got all caught up.” Molly rolled her eyes: “Mu-um!” she whined jokingly. Molly skipped up two steps to reach her mother’s height.

 

 

“I can’t get the bastard thing…Molly, ow, that hurts…Molly, you’re pulling too hard…Ow! You’re hurting me!”

 

 

Alex awoke with a start. She moaned through the gag, her head was pulled back by her hair, she felt like her neck would snap. The chair she was tied to was tipped onto its back two legs slightly.

 

 

“Wakey, wakey Drakey. Thought you’d sleep forever.” He dropped her head and she fell forward, the chair almost tipping in the opposite direction, her chin virtually hitting her chest. She lifted her head groggily. She was tied to a chair in a large empty room. She had guessed correctly that it was the top-floor of a high-rise block of flats – she could see the sky from the windows and she was sure she wouldn’t be placed where someone could see in through the windows. She was bound to the chair by her ankles, with twine which cut into her flesh. Each leg was attached to a chair leg, and twine linked her legs. She could just touch the floor with her big toes but she had barely any feeling in her feet. She knew she wouldn’t get very far if she managed to miraculously escape. Her hands were tied behind her back, also fixed to the chair. She was still wearing her knee length skirt and pale pink silk blouse she had put on two days ago.

 

 

“Wakey wakey.” he taunted her. “It’s no fun if you sleep through it all.” She eyed him through semi-slit eyes, her head lolling on her neck. She was hungry, tired, and thirsty; and in pain. The bang on the back of her head had left a strong, dull ache, pounding when she moved her head and clouding her vision; she was stiff from being in one position so long. The cuts from her bonds at her hands and feet cut deeper if she tried to shift within them. And her shoulders, neck and collarbone stung from the razor-blade slices he had made, thin and shallow, barely more than scratches, enough to allow the deep red blood to bubble to the surface.

 

 

Alex had revealed her identity to him within hours, hoping that it would cause him to panic and flee. She risked that she had profiled him correctly, surmising that he wouldn’t simply kill her; that death was a by-product not his ultimate goal. The drowning had led her to that conclusion: it was a sudden death after a drawn-out process, ending it quickly when their bodies were of no more use to him. But she had misjudged him. Caught up in the thrill of his fantasy, his excitement was trebled by his catch. Despite his assurances to himself in his ‘rational’ moments that he would not risk being caught, now in the heat of the moment, the idea of putting one over on the people trying to catch him, well, it sent his ego into hyper drive. Now it was a game. He could have his pleasure, confident that his hiding place would not be discovered; only afterwards would he have to worry about where to dump the body. But that was five days away.

 

 

“It’s lunch time, Detective.” he said, holding a glass of water to her parched lips, removing the gag down to her neck. She had not eaten for two days. He gave her a small glass of water every nine hours and untied her from the chair, her wrists and ankles remaining bound, every six hours to take her to the bathroom. Not that she would need to make use of the toilet soon, she thought bitterly.

 

 

The drink coincided with a ‘toilet break’. Alex stretched her aching limbs as best she could as he pulled her roughly to her feet.

 

 

“Guv, Guv, we’ve got something!” Ray shook the radio. Gene heard the enormous radio crackle to life from within the inner pocket in his coat, disturbing his contemplation. As he stood at the bus stop he stilled himself, blocking out the distant noises of the neighbourhood.

 

 

“Raymondo?” Bloody useless, fairy, crackpot technology. Gene twisted the knobs on the enormous radio. The radio crackled again, Ray’s voice breaking through: “We’ve got something.” is all he heard.

 

 

Gene threw his cigarette to the floor and ran to the red Quattro, ignoring as many road laws as possible on his race back to the station.

 

 

“Pull yourself together, Alex.” she fought inside her bleary head. She could barely see, as he led her to the bathroom. She blinked, closing her eyes tightly a few times, trying to open them wider, to clear the fog of pain and weakness. This was her eighth visit to the bathroom. She had struggled the first few times he had released her and he had reacted violently, slapping her in the face, throwing her over his shoulder on one occasion, blindfolding her on another. This was her last chance. Her survival instinct was dwindling fast: she had allowed herself to fall into regular unconsciousness and dream of Molly and home instead of keeping her mind alert, trying to find a way out of this mess. And her feet were in agony. If she was going to make a move, it had to be now.

 

 

He supported her as they walked, convinced her will was broken as her knees buckled and she tripped on her ankles and made no resistance, instead leaning into him and dragging her feet until he righted her. As he positioned her so the loo was behind her and he bent down at his knees to lift her skirt she shifted her body weight backwards, falling with a crack onto the porcelain bowl. Before he could react, she brought her knees to her chest and with the all the strength she could muster she kicked him with both feet full in the face as he bent forward instinctively to catch her. She screamed a deep scream from the depths of her lungs and breathed deep ragged breaths, adrenaline pumping through her body, giving her strength she knew she didn’t have.

 

 

“Spit it out, then.” Gene stood in the middle of CID, his coat still on, his hands on his hips beneath the silk seam of the coat.

 

 

“They’ve found fibres. Clothing, shoes marks, ‘air. We can find ‘im, and ‘er.” Ray said breathlessly. Since his DI had been taken, Ray had been racked with guilt. Gene wouldn’t look him in the eyes. Chris had stutteringly tried to explain to the Guv what had happened and Ray had kicked him in the shins. He may throw his weight around, take the piss out of DI Drake’s moods and bizarre methods, but he knew this was his fault and he was determined to rectify it. Like the rest of the team he was horrified by the torture these women had suffered and he ached at the thought that Alex would undoubtedly be suffering the same, and he was responsible.

 

 

Gene pouted and nodded at the team. He addressed them slowly, emphasising every word, his low voice quiet, menacing and forceful: “I want every last bastard here on this. We go through every damn file, pull in anyone ‘ho so much as looks us the wrong way!” He thumped Alex’s desk. “No one goes ‘ome til she’s back here getting on our tits.”

 

 

Gene sat down behind Alex’s desk. ‘What are you waiting for?” he roared. Everyone jumped from their positions and the office buzzed with the sound of shuffling papers, phones being dialled and Chris and Ray crashing into each other, knocking objects from Chris’s desk to the floor. Shaz scuttled over to help clear up, nervously avoiding the Guv’s glare.

 

 

“You knew this man, you said.” Gene whispered to himself. “The answer must be here.” He surveyed the neat pile of folders on the desk. Stationery was tidied away. Alex had left the desk in an impeccable condition before she left, not knowing how long it would be before she returned. Gene sniffed. He looked down at the drawers, and opened the top one. Not much there, he thought, ignoring the unopened packet of tampons discreetly placed at the back. He opened the second drawer. More stationery – Christ, how many staplers can one person use? He was just about to shut the drawer when his eye caught sight of it: a small tape. He picked it up and, placing his elbows on the desk, slowly turned it over in his fingers.

 

 

“Chris! Get me one of those talky-tapey things.” Chris looked at his boss with confusion. “Erm , Guv? I…er?” Chris stuttered, looking round the office for help. Gene waved the tape at Chris. “I need to listen to this.” “Oh, yeah, right. We got loads in the lab.” Chris voiced his recognition. He turned to Shaz. “I could get yer one, y’know, for yer birthday, if yer wanted.”

 

 

“Chris! Am I surrounded by complete idiots? We are in the middle of a bloody murder investigation! Will you get off your useless arse and get me one so I can listen to this damn thing!” Chris scampered out the room and returned almost instantly with a dictaphone.

 

 

Alex clambered to her feet, stepping unsteadily around his sprawled body. He was out cold, blood running down his nose. She stumbled towards the exit. She turned her back to the door knob, and worked the twine binding her hands up and down along the ridge. “Come on, come on. Yes!” It snapped, releasing her arms. She gasped from the pain of her arm muscles changing position, hugging her wrists to her chest as the blood flowed back to her hands agonisingly.

 

 

“Forget the feet.” she told herself and rattled the door knob. Locked, of course. She looked around the empty apartment. She hobbled to the kitchenette, breathing quickly and heavily, her head spinning. She knew she had just a few minutes, if she was lucky, before he came round. She just needed to get out of the building, into the light, bang on someone’s door, before she collapsed from exhaustion – a couple of days without food had weakened her more than she cared to admit . She opened all the drawers in the kitchen and finally found what she was looking for. She returned to the front door and bent to her knees, and started to work the lock twisting the thin silver wire in different directions.

 

 

It wasn’t budging. Alex swayed. She was shaking, she hadn’t yet got full command of her fingers, and she dropped the wire. “Shit, shit.” she breathed. She looked over her shoulder desperately. Could she hear him moving? Her vision swam. She leant her head against door, taking a few deep breaths. “Come on, Alex, you can do this.” She picked up the wire and with every ounce of concentration she managed to unlock the door.

 

 

He lunged at her just as she made it past the door. They tumbled down the stone stairs in a heap. She clawed at him blindly but in her weakened state she was no match for his fury. He grabbed at her arms, pulling them roughly behind her and dragged her back up the stairs, saying not a word. She screamed and shouted: “Help! Help me!” He threw her to the floor, slamming the door behind them. He towered over her and lifted her to his face by her shoulders: “You stupid, calculating, little fucking whore.” he seethed, droplets of spit landing on her face.

 

 

“You won’t win, they’ll find me and they’ll kill you. Every officer in the London Met is out there looking for me.” she defied him through clenched teeth, looking him square in the eyes, her voice shaking. He raised his fist.

 

 

“For God’s sake, I’m pregnant.” she pleaded hoarsely.

 

 

“I don’t care.” he replied.

 

 

She didn’t feel the left-hook that crunched into her right cheek knocking her out instantly.

 

 

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 

 

Saturday 24 April, 1982

 

 

None of the team had been home for over twenty-four hours; instead they took turns napping for thirty minutes here and there at their desks, working round the clock reinvestigating every detail. Kindly Luigi, who Gene thoughtfully kept up-to-date, brought them food to the office. “You find the lovely Signorina, Mr Hunt, I know you will.” Gene had merely nodded in surly agreement, not meeting the sensitive Italian’s eyes.

 

 

Gene had listened intently to Alex’s recordings, shivering at the sound of her voice. He marvelled at the level of her conviction, the detail she could determine about him, her fierce intelligence. The points of which he took particular note described an obsessive compulsion and it was here that Alex had felt sure they could solve this case. Gene strived to make himself think as Alex would do. What would she think of the empty flat? She would realise that the kidnapper had made a sudden decision to pounce as there was no evidence that he had tried to clean up after himself. Gene, connecting the dots, concluded that they needed to focus on all inconsistencies, however minor – and trawl through the files of the other murders and focus on all the similarities. They had been doing this for months, everyone was tired, but Gene spurred them on.

 

 

Gene, alone in his office, flinched as he looked again at the photographs of the dead girls, their injuries cruelly exposed in the close-up images, their identities reduced to no more than an anonymous brown file containing the evidence of their gruesome deaths. He read the notes again. Raped. Each one of them. He clenched his jaw. There was only two days left to find her. If they did find her alive, what kind of a state would she be in?

 

 

He clenched the kitchen surface, his knuckles turning white. They had to be the same. He was methodical, routine and detail was at the heart of this experience. The inevitability of the week’s outcome gave him goose bumps; he was sweetly torturing himself by prolonging the gratification. Day five. He had only managed to hold out with the others until day three, their nudity and helplessness too overwhelming for him to resist. His desire was perfectly normal, he told himself. They were, after all, young, beautiful, desirable women. And they were his, for him to play with. Why shouldn’t he fuck them, they were going to die anyway? He pushed himself up to his full height and turned his head back to the main room where she waited.

 

 

He had told her he didn’t care, but as he makes his way down her body with his blade, his fingers itch as he reaches her abdomen, knowing the moment when he can let go of his restraint and move his arm high to slash in a single sweeping motion is coming, he feels himself held back. It is wrong, all wrong. There is something alive in there. Images of a film he had seen recently, Alien, flash through his mind. He feels sick, unable to quash the retching, saliva filling his mouth. He recalls the seminar in which they had discussed the Freudian connotations of the film, the horror of childbirth. He lowers his arm, and moves his blade along the side of her torso instead, finding untouched skin and makes small neat cuts, her body shaking at the contact and she pleads with him incoherently through the gag, again, to stop. He feels his heartbeat return to a steady rhythm as the red stains the white skin, the urge to break the perfection akin to the desire to walk in untouched snow: the snow ruined once the footsteps appear, the perpetrator searches for new snow to admire and destroy.

 

 

He looms over her, one leg either side of the chair, stripped naked. Through wide eyes Alex takes in the scars on his torso, noting he was not averse to inflicting the same treatment he was giving to her on himself. His musty sweat fills her nostrils. He is breathing heavily. She trembles. She knows what is coming. He runs his hands lightly across her face, along her neck, tracing a line down her body connecting the red lines with a greasy finger. He unties her gently from the chair. The top has long been discarded but she is still wearing the skirt. He lays her on the floor, her tied arms uncomfortable beneath her, and drags the skirt down to her ankles. He moves on top of her, his skin mere millimetres from her own. Alex clenches her eyes shut. Why won’t he just get on with it? The wait for the inevitable to happen intensifies her fear. He seems to be taking her in; but in fact, she realises, he is trying to arouse himself. He needs to do this, it is part of the routine. But he doesn’t want to.

 

 

She suddenly feels the consciousness of the bundle of independent cells inside her. It’s the baby; he can’t do it with the baby there. Her body tenses, every muscle taut, anticipating the pain and praying for mercy. He moves back up her body and brings his face level with hers, his eyes boring into hers. She can see in his expression he feels its presence too.

 

 

With a violent sudden movement, he lifts himself up and turns her roughly onto her front. “No!” she cries, fearing the worst. Holding her tied hands low on her back, he brings his other hand high above his shoulder and in the promised sweeping motion makes a long, deep slash between her shoulder blades, feeling a wave of relief wash over him as his frustration begins to dissipate. Alex opens her mouth to scream but only silent pain emanates.

 

 

It was Shaz who timidly made the break-through suggestion. She felt the burden of Alex’s absence keenly but she also felt empowered and inspired by her and overcame her nervousness to put forward her idea, an idea she felt sure Alex would support: “Guv, what about a TV appeal?”

 

 

The team scoffed in unison. Shaz’s face fell. Gene looked to the floor. He needed to do everything possible and he was fair, he gave credit where it was due: Shaz was right, and he realised how hard it would have been for her to make the suggestion after his last disastrous TV appearance.

 

 

“Yes. I think you’re right, Granger.” he said in his clipped tones, his fierce glare silencing the team. Ray looked around him incredulously.

 

 

“You got a problem, Raymondo?” Gene stared at him coldly.

 

 

“No, Guv, I… No, Guv.” Ray responded sheepishly, crumbling under his Guv’s unflinching gaze.

 

 

“Shaz, get on it. We’re doing an appeal tonight.” Gene instructed.

 

 

Gene felt sweat pouring off his face. He had done it. He had made it through the horrific ordeal: the lights bearing down on him, some tosser with ridiculously over-sized headphones directing him to look into this camera, then that one, confusing him. Gene had closed his eyes and focused on one thing: Alex and the three days they had left to find her alive. He had written the appeal himself. He took the time to think about the words he needed to use. He had listened several times to Alex’s tape, and read her profile notes, and summarised the murderer’s likely key characteristics. A photo of Alex was shown. Anyone experiencing anything out of the ordinary, a neighbour behaving suspiciously, a house left empty for an unusual amount of time should contact the station immediately. As the studio lights went up the irritating cameraman pulled off his earphones and gave Gene a discreet two thumbs up, and a small encouraging smile that reassured Gene that this time he had not messed it up. Now all he had to do was wait for the phones to start ringing.

 

 

Sunday 25 April 1982

 

 

The team was exhausted. The late-night news appeal was being hailed a success; the phones were ringing endlessly. While it was hard work going through every statement, the team was buoyed by the knowledge that just one witness needed to be right. They now had concrete names to investigate. By the afternoon plods were on the streets following up various statements.

 

 

“Edward Koepp?” Chris repeated. He rifled through his notes. The name was familiar. He was knackered; adrenaline was all that was keeping him going into the early hours of the evening. He had already had at least forty conversations today but this name, it rang bells.

 

 

“Oh, yes dear, I think that’s his name” the old lady replied. “Ever such nice young man, well, he’s not so young I suppose, he’s a student though. Bit old to be a student I tell ‘im, he should get himself a proper job! I only ring – well, you see the number was on the telly last night, dreadful thing to ‘appen to them poor girls. My granddaughter, she’s at university y’know. I say to ‘er she ‘as to be so careful these days with all those nutters about. She’s going to be a doctor y’know, isn’t that wonderful, so clever, can look after me in me old age.” She prattled on, forgetting why she was calling.

 

 

“Er, Ma’am, that is lovely, yeah. So, this neighbour?” Chris interrupted gently. He motioned to Ray who had just slammed the phone down in frustration. Chris mouthed ‘Edward Koepp’ silently at him. Ray understood immediately and started to look through all the statements.

 

 

“Oh, yes. Well, I’ve not seen him around you see, and I remember that I saw him last Wednesday and he said he would trim my roses on Saturday and I haven’t seen him since.” she said in a nonchalant manner. Pausing, she then said with more consideration: “I don’t like to think anything bad about him, he is ever so polite, but that appeal from the TV last night, well, that police officer... I don’t know, he somehow made it seem so real, and that pretty girl... I don’t want to waste your time, police officer, I’m sure you’re very busy, but...”

 

 

“Ma’am, you did the right thing.” Chris said, passing the phone to a plonk to get her details. Chris ran over to Ray’s desk. “This one, Edward Koepp, I know I’ve heard it today.” Ray pulled a statement from the pile.

 

 

“ ‘Ere it is. Yes, someone else reported he’s been away from his house since Wednesday. It was a young woman called this morning. She says she called cos she remembered ‘er neighbour had been away a few weeks ago and the appeal last night, the dates of the last girl’s disappearance jogged her memory. I think this is it!” Ray said excitedly. Chris and Ray looked towards the Manc Lion’s office seeing their leader taking a rare nap at his desk.

 

 

Gene was roused from his slumber by the sound of gentle knocking at the glass pane of his door. He was utterly drained, his clothes were unkempt, his hair shaggy and he was in need of a shave.

 

 

“What?” he demanded.

 

 

“I think you want to come in on this one, Guv.” Ray said tentatively. “Two people have called ’bout him. Been missing for a few days and was away around the dates of the previous murders. He lives on the other side of London which is why neither of them contacted us before; they reckoned they didn’t make a connection when they saw the reports in the papers like.”

 

 

“Name.” Gene requested.

 

 

“’Er, Edward Koepp. ‘e’s a student, studying psychology, he...” Gene’s mind clicked into gear. Psychology. He understands what he was doing, she had said, the distant voice from the tape running through his mind. The fact that he could cover his tracks so carefully had indicated to Alex that he might have knowledge of psychology or police procedurals. Despite the disturbing nature of the deaths, they had been calm, clinical and calculated.

 

 

“Let’s go.” Gene interrupted, grabbing his long coat. He grasped Ray’s shoulder as he pushed him through the door. Ray inwardly acknowledged the slightest of gestures of forgiveness.

 

 

Gene Hunt stood in the middle of Edward Koepp’s front room, the calm at the centre of storm. Clothes and bits of paper floated around him as officers rummaged through every crevice. Gene appeared to his officers the epitome of Buddhist calm but his heart was pounding. This is where he lived, where he had eaten, slept, watched television, and planned his vile attacks. He could feel Alex’s presence as if the thoughts from Koepp’s imagination had left an imprint in the walls. Gene could feel the air molecules vibrate with the evil that permeated the room like dust.

 

 

“The bins.” Gene directed. It was dark, was it now Monday?

 

 

“131 Manor Court.” Chris yelled, falling over himself as he rushed from the kitchen to the living room to find Gene. “It’s another apartment he owns in North London. There’s a gas bill in his bin. I think this is it!”


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 

 

Monday 26 April, 1982

 

 

Alex was staring into the eyes of Arthur Layton. “What the? Where am I?” Alex exclaimed. Her hands were in the air in surrender, she was wearing her 2008 work suit. They were on the bridge again. Arthur Layton pointed his gun at her, the hostage crying in his arms. “Mum!” Molly ran from nowhere. “No! Don’t shoot” Alex screamed, waving her arms at the snipers, instictively blocking their view of her daughter. Layton grabbed the little girl, releasing the hostage, and pulled her away towards the steps.

 

 

Alex breathed shallowly. Her head spun. What was going on? How was she here again? Why was she here again? Everything slowed down around her. She turned slowly, taking in the watching public, the surrounding police, and the clouds hazy against the blue sky. She felt the ground beneath her rock, causing her to sway gently.

 

 

A gun shot rang out. Time sped up. Alex ran down the steps, following the sound of the gunshot, her heart racing. She arrived on the pebbled beach. She looked around for Molly to stumble into her view. She didn’t. Alex started to run, then stopped, her heart thumping hard against her chest.

 

 

“No!" she screamed, her voice breaking. Molly lay on her back, blood running down the side of her face. Alex rushed to her daughter’s side, feeling for a pulse in her neck. There wasn’t one. She fell backwards unable to bring herself to touch her again, shock over taking her senses, unable to even cry at the incomprehensibility of it. Molly wasn’t dead. Alex had been the one who was shot.

 

 

“Come on, Alex, you’ll be my ticket out of this mess.” Layton pulled her to her feet, Alex too dazed to resist.

 

 

Alex opened her eyes. Her chin wobbled as she tried to stop the tears from flowing. The clown was in clear view, about ten feet in front of her. Standing in front of the clown was Molly. For the first time, Alex could see her daughter in detail, more than a peripheral vision.

 

 

“Mummy? I miss you.” Molly said in steady tones. Behind them was a shimmering blackness. “You’ve been shot, Mummy, you won’t wake up.”

 

 

“I know” Alex whispered. She remembered it all now. Denial had blocked it from her consciousness. Her worst fears had come true, a fear that no mother should ever have to face. Molly was dead, shot in the head by a madman. Alex’s stomach churned. As she had known in her heart that her father had been responsible for the loss of her parents; as she had always known about her mother’s affair with Evan, she knew that Molly was gone. Layton had dragged her to that boat and shot her too. There was nothing for her to return to in 2008.

 

 

As if reading her mind, Molly said calmly: “Come with me, Mummy, you only have to shut your eyes and we can be together.”

 

 

The deep voice of the clown echoed after her: “We are waiting for you, Alex.”

 

 

“Oh baby, my baby girl!” Alex sobbed. My baby, she thought again. She looked down at her abdomen. “Gene?”

 

 

The Quattro screeched to a halt on the tarmac in front of two high rise blocks. Gene, Chris and Ray raced out of the car.

 

 

“Which block was it, Ray?” Gene cocked his gun, waiting for Ray’s answer.

 

 

“That one” said Ray, pointing to his right. “Top floor, it says ‘ere.” Gene looked around him. They were the first to arrive; armed back-up was on its way. Gene knew he should wait but the little voice inside his mind spurred him on: she didn’t have time for him to ponce about. He ran to the building, finding the lift upon entry. He bashed the lift button. No lights lit up. He tried again. His heart beat faster. Fifteen floors. He could sprint all the way.

 

 

She was naked, those ubiquitous tiny cuts now covering every part of her body except her face, interspersed with deeper, raging slashes that dripped blood to the floor, creating a pool about her: one on the inside of her left thigh, three on her back, one on her left arm, following the line of the muscle. And one on her neck, running just below the jugular down to the hollow at the base of her neck. He stood back to admire his handiwork. That would be the last one, the one that sent the shivers down his spine. She was muttering to herself, calling for her baby, addressing someone he couldn’t see; she seemed as if she no longer saw him. Like the others, she no longer responded to the cutting. And that’s when it ended for him. When they ceased to wince, to scream, to plead with him it was over.

 

 

“Gene.” she thought, the image of him filling her mind’s eye. The epiphany took only a split second. She had been shot in the head. She wasn’t going to wake up. She was a second away from death not life. On the other side were Molly and…the clown. Death was all that awaited her. She could see an apparition of Molly but there was nothing else behind her. Sam Tyler had ‘lived’ for seven years in this world while seconds away from death. He had lived. And he had died. Eventually she would die too, the bullet would complete its journey and she would succumb. And Molly would still be there. Wherever Molly was, Alex would join her. But not now, not now that there was life growing inside her. Not like this, at the hands of another psychopath. She had to tell Gene. However long she had in this world, she wanted to live and breathe it. She didn’t know what lay on the other side but she would find out eventually. For now, though, she would live.

 

 

As if looking through the wrong end of a telescope, Alex felt herself lifted from the chair. “No!” she cried inwardly. I’m not ready, Gene, I need Gene. The baby! Her mind was alert, at the point of death she realised her choice: death or life here, with Gene; and the tragedy that teh choice was being snatched away from her, it was beyond her control, her body was exhausted, the loss of blood too much for her to fight him. She heard the splash before she felt the cold water engulf her. He dropped her in the bath full of water, pushing her head beneath the surface. She tried to hold her breath, eyes wide but he put his hands around her throat. And she closed her eyes.

 

 

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 

 

A shot rang out. Edward Koepp fell forward, losing his grip on his prey. Gene hauled him back, shoving him to the floor. There was no thought, his world silenced around him as he took in the horrific sight of his Bolly lying still in the pink water, her hair floating around her face like a halo. Her skin was pale except for the raging bruises at her ankles and wrists, and the red lines that, through the water, seemed to swim like an invading virus over her skin. He pulled her by her arms first, catching her under her waist and lifting her limp body into his arms. Moving out of the bathroom he laid her gently on the floor, pulling his coat off to cover her, even in this desperate moment wanting to protect her dignity. Feet thundered past him into the bathroom as he thumped her chest, over and over. “Breathe, damn you.” He stared at her face, white except for the glaring rainbow-hued bruise on her right check. He put his lips to her blue ones, willing her eyes to open before he needed to breathe for her. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Guv, it’s over.” He shoved the hand away violently, returning to thumping her chest. His lips returned to hers. He would not give up. Koepp had been holding her down when he entered the room, it wasn’t too late.

 

 

He felt the jolt like an electric shock through her body, arching her back as water surged from her lips. He turned her over onto her side, rubbing her back, trying to avoid the worst cuts – don’t think about them - encouraging the water on its exodus. She choked and spluttered. Her eyes opened in confusion. It was black, wasn’t it? No, she could see. “Molly?!” she cried. As the last of the water left her, she rolled forward, letting herself go limp, bringing her arms and knees to her chest. Her body shook violently. Gene wrapped her fully and tightly with his coat and lifted her off the dirty floor, realising that she was going into shock, or hypothermia, or both. He roared: “Where’s the fucking ambulance?” as he raced down the endless flights of steps holding her tightly in his arms.

 

 

She hung her hands around his neck limply, without the strength to hold herself up. He’s here. It’s Gene, she thought foggily, in between the blackness that invaded her consciousness.

 

 

“Gene?”

 

 

“You ‘ang in there, Bols,” was the breathless reply as they charged down the stairs.

 

 

“I’m… pregnant,” she managed to whisper before fading away.

 

 

He laid her carefully on the waiting gurney, the paramedics taking over from him. He stood with his arms limply at his side, watching helplessly as they warmed her with blankets and covered her face with an oxygen mask.

 

 

“Her neck” - he pointed - “she’s bleeding.”

 

 

“We know, Mr Hunt. Give us space to do our jobs; we’re helping her all we can.” His world seemed to slow so that every nanosecond lasted an age. The paramedics were talking to him but he could make no sense of their words, a nonsensical noise deafening him instead. He peered down at his wet shirt, deep red staining the front. He felt his stomach lurch.

 

 

Gene looked around trying to get his bearings. He saw a second ambulance and the bastard murdering scum receiving treatment for the gunshot wound to his shoulder. White rage boiled in him. The lion inside roared and he thundered over and before anyone had time to react he tipped him off the gurney and kicked and kicked and kicked him, liquid, brutal anger surging through his veins. With every kick the frustration that had grown in him for three months, its seed sown the night he slept with Alex, swelled in him like a nuclear mushroom cloud, no sense of when the explosion would reach its crescendo and the soft fallout begin. It took three men to pull Gene off him. He spat at the pathetic bloodied figure, finally giving in, spent, and allowed himself to be pulled way, drenched in sweat. He stormed off to his car, his eyes throwing daggers at anyone stupid enough to look at him, daring them to approach him. He slammed the door shut. He leaned his head forward on the steering wheel and did something the Gene Genie would never allow another person to witness: he sobbed, his whole body shaking with tears.

 

 

Epilogue

 

 

Friday 30 April, 1982

 

 

Gene shifted uncomfortably in his chair, twisting his old camel-coloured coat over him. Nurses offered him blankets; doctors advised him to go home, that they would call if - “when” he had growled - she wakes up. He rebuffed them. The gentle rhythmic beating of the heart monitor lulled him into a semi-dozing state. After the intensity of the first few desperate hours in hospital when the doctors could offer no assurances that she would survive, she was now sedated, doctors advising that with the combination of loss of blood, starvation and shock, as well as the mental trauma, should she panic she would possibly be too weak to combat an attack. She had needed a blood transfusion and she had a very nasty injury to the back of the head but scans revealed no brain damage although they warned him of the headaches that might follow. She had stitches to the deeper cuts, and the rest had all been sterilised to help prevent infection. She was laid on her side to reprieve the pressure on her back where the deepest cuts were, though tubes seemed to emanate from every area.

 

 

Gene told the doctors about the pregnancy. He had no answers to the questions they put to him, only insistence that they check the welfare of the baby, who was safe. Miraculously, they said. There was evidence from her bruises that she had fallen heavily at least twice. Three months, they told him. They reassured him, though he was hesitant to believe them given the circumstances of the other deaths, that she had not been sexually assaulted. He needed to hear that from Alex.

 

 

He shifted again in his chair. Lumpy, fake leather, and hard as a rock. He pulled his rank as DCI to overrule hospital policy for visiting hours, declaring he would stay where he was until she woke up. Shaz had brought him a few changes of clothes. Ray and Chris, as well as other members of the team, had all popped by over the last couple of days. All were relieved at her ‘safe’ return. They had gone to Luigi’s that evening, without Gene, but it had hardly been a celebratory night. They sat quietly, each lost in their own thoughts. Chris comforted Shaz, who was unable to hold back her tears at the memory of the dire sight of Alex in intensive care, and the hopeless and desperate look in the Guv’s eyes.

 

 

He heard her gentle groan first. He reached out and took her hand in his.

 

 

“Bols?” he called softly. She was wrapped in white sheets and wore a white hospital gown. Her hair, now partly bereft of its curls, hung softly around her neck; a thick stray strand wound its way along her neck and tucked itself between her chin and the pillow.

 

 

“Mmmm?” she replied, frowning without opening her eyes. He said nothing further, he simply squeezed her hand. She could feel light on her face. She ached all over. But she felt stronger, her head was clearer now, only sleep seemed to dim her consciousness. She felt his hand in hers and she squeezed it in return, the relief at his touch a natural painkiller. She drew her knees up and shifted herself towards him, wincing at the sharp pain in her neck and back. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the light. “Hospital?” she asked quietly. He nodded his response. She looked up at his eyes, questioningly. She couldn’t bring herself to ask. Her eyes flickered downwards and lingered for a few moments before returning to his face.

 

 

“The baby’s fine.” He smiled briefly through his frown. She felt tears sting her eyes. It had been so wrong that night – too desperate -and in the days afterwards she had battled with herself, her emotions rocking between self-loathing and regret; she had considered talking to him to try to find a way to bridge the gap that had subsequently opened between them. But he had been so distant. Then this horrendous case had arisen and absorbed all their energy. To then find herself pregnant, tying her inextricably to this world, confused her feelings for him all the more. During her time undercover she had tried not to think about the pregnancy, or Gene. She tried to convince herself it was inconsequential as she would soon be home with her daughter. But there had been moments when she forgot where she was and she would momentarily slip and maternal pleasure would seep through her bones; and she would fantasise of other nights with him, without their mutual drunkenness to ruin it.

 

 

“Gene, I’m so sorry, I should never…” She stopped, tears choking her.

 

 

“’Ey, ‘ey, what you got to be sorry for?” he soothed urgently, moving his free hand to her face, stroking the hair away, running a thumb along her unbruised cheek. Alex savoured the sensation, so gentle after the brutality she had endured. She pushed those painful memories away; there would be time to confront them later. She would cry desperately, both for herself and for the death of her daughter. And he would comfort her, bemused at the sight of this beautiful, intelligent woman in his arms - carrying his child, he would think in astonished wonder - feeling her grief as if it were his own. He would have his chance to make amends. Her scars, both physical and mental, would heal slowly and she would allow him to help her return to strength. They would tentatively accept their desire for each other, that night long forgotten.

 

 

“I didn’t want to…to be here. I was…scared. My daughter…” How could she possibly explain why she had rejected him so? “I want to live, Gene.”

 

 

She tried again, more determinedly this time, swallowing the tears. “My…our baby. I have to fight to live.”

 

 

The End.


End file.
